


Ninety-Nine Percent Better

by estrangedaframian



Category: SPN, Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Other, Reader-Insert, Self-Insert, imagine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-03 19:55:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16332440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estrangedaframian/pseuds/estrangedaframian
Summary: While hunting for a Whisper (aka were-pire) with Castiel, Reader must contend with their social anxiety. Fluff and mixed-feelings ensue.





	Ninety-Nine Percent Better

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kandice1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kandice1/gifts).



> (The use of Y/N has been replaced with a double-underscore.)

You were a hunter who preferred staying indoors, and that made you a walking, stalking— _shooting_ — paradox.

Castiel, as it happened, was a paradox of biblical proportions. And so naturally, you two got along swimmingly. You liked the Winchesters well enough, but they were also bleak in that very human way— though if it hadn’t been for their flanneled hospitality, you wouldn’t be _here_ , after all— maybe alive, maybe dead— but certainly not in a bunker in Lebanon, Kansas, sitting comfortably as an honourary person of letters in the vein of Henry Winchester and Josie Sands… 

Your buddy Cas, on the other hand— despite his Neo-Noir good looks and according hint of aftershave— was never truly apart from his _Precious Moments_ milieu. The Angel was at once the essence of everything you felt was missing in humanity; as well as the too few parts you loved about it.  


* * *

As the harvest sun settled, a cornucopia of cumulus hanging low, the muddy earth gripping the soles of your boots— the supply store came into view. The storefront was brick, capped off by a bright red awning, an inexpensive vinyl-like material printed with bold black lettering: WE SELL AMMO.

Your partner for this particular hunting trip was none other than Castiel. He wore one of the same number of coat-and-tie combinations he always did, but something about the sky and him on this evening… You couldn’t describe it, but it appealed to you. _He_ appealed to you. Much so. That kindness, that raw power. The manner in which the wind tousled his humble haircut, teasing his put-on-backwards tie to the point where it flapped like a lame-winged bird, and how he almost seemed to be the causal force of such wacky yet refined weather. 

His proximity to you was meticulous, one step behind you—two or three, if you got excitable— and his feet made no more disturbance over the crisp forest floor than a squirrel’s paws might have. Less perhaps, for Castiel wasn’t the least bit squirrelly.

“There,” he spoke, his voice hushed, almost hallow, and he placed a hand on your shoulder, pointing you in the direction of the store. 

“… That place? What about it, Cas?” The present and ongoing pursuit of a ‘Whisper’ wanted you to be tense, but you couldn’t be; not while God’s grace disguised as a private dick was THIS close to you. 

Generally, Castiel’s expression remained unchanged from that of saccharine and matter of fact, but as his ocular oceans sank down to his shotgun’s empty barrel, you knew he was feeling heavy-hearted about something or other.

“I’m out… and I know you are, too.” Intense light poured from a sliver in the Angel’s wounded cheek— slashed early on in the hunt by the elusive ‘were-pire’ which was your prey of the hour, as it were. Watching your back, he simply had not the time nor strength enough to fix it. “Speak not of your condition, __.” Cas raised his hand from your shoulder (you were amazed at how long he let it linger there), and began rummaging in his coat’s inner pockets. “I saw it in your heart— ”

Your breath hitched in your chest as he spoke— interrupting his serene, severe thought process— your aforementioned organ thumping inside you to the beat of an ill-tuned drum. For his sake, you mostly kept your composure. 

“Wait. What do you mean? You lost me, buddy,” you said, your attention torn between Castiel and the ominous dead-end surplus in the foreground of where you and Cas both stood by quietly.

“Social anxiety.” He blinked, completely non-judgmental, his face awash with all the caring and stone of a Churchyard. This face— Castiel’s face— would be the death of you, you thought, struck again with the duality of the earth Angel you cherished above all others— Angel, and non.

You wanted to speak, wanted to explain yourself.

“You thought I was going to ask you to go into there… I was,” he confessed plainly. “With my vessel as it is, I thought our ‘luck’ at getting what we need approximately ninety-nine percent better at your behest.”

Forever befuddled, you allowed yourself to slump to the ground in an exhausted, marginally comfortable, sitting position. Castiel followed suit, assuming a gargoyle crouch at your side. 

“I can’t lie to you, Cas— Yeah, the place rubs me the wrong way. Same as every public place does, except this one has the element of cobwebs _and_ surprise! Has anyone even been inside there in the last…  decade? _Doctor Doom_ could be our cashier, for Christ’s sake!” _Sorry, Lord’s name in vain._ You grimaced out your apology, but Cas made no acknowledgement of either your slur or your sorrow.

In a manner he was as perplexed by your nature as you by his; he was hung up on your reference to comic villainy and improbable passages of time. You were a fool in the grand scheme of things, but you were his fool to protect.

Cas was now sitting alongside you, his transfigured legs stretched out in a sequence similar to your own. _When did this happen?_ It seemed, as usual, his segueing was too fast for your human eye to conceive, and you cursed yourself for always missing out on strange little moments like these.

“If… Doom _were_ the cashier,” Cas started slowly, way too deep into postulation, “that would be fortunate, wouldn’t it? The man wears much silver… We could fell him where he counts the change, and melt down his armour, and fashion it into new silver bullets.” He stared at you, his steely gaze fishing for a battle plan, his pink mouth not bent to any one emotion. It reminded you how helpless he was, all things considered.

Leaning, you pressed a tragic-hero type kiss to his brilliant wound, half imagining that your true love would seal it up ‘magically’. Alas, the blinding grace continued to shine from within Castiel’s cheek, and you still felt like shit thinking of how you would approach the employee lurking behind the blazing OPEN sign beyond.

“No matter,” Cas resumed, “I’ve thought of something. My angel blade— we shall pawn it for ammunition. Silver blades, in any case.” Belatedly, he raised an eyebrow in response to your PDA, but said nothing of it.

You sprang to your feet in protest. “No way!” _Crap_. Looking around, you lowered your voice. “I can’t let you do that over my stupid anx… What, Angel blades don’t work on Whispers?” You groaned, prompting Castiel to rise and subsequently embrace you. It was, in reality, his idiosyncratically tight grip on your arm, a silent ‘Get yourself together, man’. But you would gladly accept it as a hug.

“—They don’t. And it’s like you said, no one comes here. We can return for the Angel blade later,” Cas assured you. “I wouldn’t dream of letting it lie around for long. In the wrong hands… it’s suicide.”

“You’re _really_ insisting, aren’t you? Well, at least let me put something over your grace… ” With several layers to spare, you reached for your thinnest shirt, and with a healthy tug— you tore off a portion of cloth. In a jiff, you fixed the makeshift bandage around Castiel’s head, taking advantage (inconspicuously if not innocently) of the chance to feel up his stubble and jawline. When you were through, the Angel looked passably pathetic— a regular ol’ guy after a regular ol’ hunting accident. 

“There. Good as old!” Beaming, you admired your work. You didn’t even mind that Castiel forgot to laugh at your funny.

“Thank you… I won’t be long.” He handed you his everyday knife, hoping it would give you at least a little extra protection while he left you unattended. “We should continue down that way,” Castiel flagged the southwest of the store’s exterior, proceeding towards the entrance. “Wish me luck?”

“I love you, Cas.” 

That’s when the door chimed. A moment later, you thought you could hear a peaceable back-and-forth between Castiel and the mystery worker, but perhaps that was the former’s powers putting your mind at rest. You wouldn’t know until he emerged— an arm through a _thanks for shopping_ plastic bag heavy with goods, and the other arm wielding his angel blade.

“The cashier wasn’t Doctor Doom… ” Castiel informed you, as the both of you (now a kosher distance from the eerie place of business), continued walking. “He was a Whisper. THE Whisper.”

“WHAT? Why didn’t you shout, or send Angel… signals… or something?!” It was concern forming your words. That, and being bummed out at losing another shot at proving you could defend your star-crossed constant companion (that’s what you wished he was, anyways— your constant companion). “How did you… know?” He’d told you all the details before, but you’d never seen one in person. And though you got the gist of hybrids, the specs. were still very much above your understanding.

“He asked me when’s the solar eclipse,” Cas explained.

“And you killed him? Jesus!” _Whoops_. “Lots of people are interested in eclipses, and it doesn’t mean they’re a were-pire!” Dammit, Dean had all but drilled that title into your skull. “It’s probably the only thing someone like him— being someone from around nowhere— has going for him.”

“I told him it was today, and then he attacked me… ”

“Oh… Guess I owe you an apology. Sorry, Cas.” 

“It’s tomorrow.”  


*** END ***

**Author's Note:**

> You can find this & other works of mine @ estrangedaframian.tumblr.com
> 
> Thank you for reading! Feedback is encouraged!


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